


the rising sea-foam

by seaweedie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bodice-Ripper, F/F, Rainbow Drinkers, it's more like dubcon really, thoroughly ridiculous and campy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaweedie/pseuds/seaweedie





	the rising sea-foam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flightofangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofangels/gifts).



"Thus my heart was 8roken twice. I was fond of the slave. There was surely promise in her red investment. He had her assassin8ed."

 

It is long after the descent of midnight when she returns to you.

You are reclining in your boudoir, naked but for the barest spidersilk of your favorite slip, the ink on your newly-penned journal entry still glistening blue-black. With the creeping of the hours you have grown pensive, irritable. Already one of your crew lies slain at the bottom of the sea, beheaded for an ill-timed query. Such careless cruelty is unusual for you, these days. You try to make a point of reserving brutality for those ends that call for such means.

Restless, you venture outside to seek air. The night sea breathes chilly dampness over your bare skin. You are alone; those amongst the crew still living have long since retreated belowdecks, cowed into silence by the violence of your spite. Just as well. You want anything but company now.

It is clear now that you sorely overestimated Dualscar. His pettiness disgusts you, as do his flushed yearnings, so blindingly obvious in retrospect. He always was a little too reluctant to take his leave of you after a night of dalliance. You remember the way he’d gritted his teeth as the trembling slave had undressed you - how you’d dismissed it, thinking it endearing. Foolish, of course. Though not as foolish as he, in the end.

Your ship is icy under your fingers as you lean out to gaze at the water. Veiled in stormcloud, the twin moons cast an uneasy haze of color over the ever-stirring ocean.

Then the ship _lurches_ , a shock of motion like a blow to the gut; you find yourself lying dazed upon the deck, with no notion of how you got there, blood roiling and the scent of sea water sharp in your nose. The alarmed cries of several your men echo belowdecks. You will have each one of them summarily whipped once you have dealt with this... whatever this is.

Another surge, then another, the ship rocking rhythmically to starboard. Each bout is accompanied by a _thud_ and a sound like the _schick_ of a penknife into a tavern wall. What in the name of...

“Marquise!” gasps a crew member from the hatch. “I think we’re under attack - ”

Without bothering to turn, you force him to whip around and withdraw belowdecks again, seizing his mind in a careless rush of, really, far too much power; you haven’t the time for foolery, the ship yaws treacherously in the water and someone, _something_ is _climbing up the hull_ -

A single clawed hand scrabbles for purchase on the soaked wood of the ship side. You stare, transfixed; it’s _glowing_.

“Rainbow drinker,” you snarl.

Like a sleep terror she appears, a hellish sea-ghast suffused with fire. Her eyes are yellow beacons in the darkness. Her hair spills in a slick, inky tangle over the tattoo-filigreed shoulders you caressed scarcely two nights ago. You recognize her, just barely.

She drags herself up with frightening ease, perching atop the side.

“Hello, Marquise,” she drawls, slinging an incandescent arm over her bent knee. “Remember me?”

She attacks before you can answer.

 

The rainbow drinker razes the opulence of your quarters without so much as a by-your-leave, dragging you by the hair through luxurious piles of east Alternian rugs and seadweller gold and leaving salt-sodden disaster in her careless wake. You twist and snap, raking lines of dripping emerald across the translucent skin of her wrist. She pays you as much mind as one might a fruit fly. Your powers have no effect on the mind of the undead.

When she stops, you attempt to kick her legs out from beneath her and flip her underneath you - a foolish gesture that earns you a dizzying slap across the face. She pins you to the ground. Her close-lipped smile is a vengeful crescent of black against the moonglow of her skin.

You hack, spit out a dribble of cerulean. “My sweet little slave,” you croak, amused despite it all. “A jadeblood, of course, I ought to have seen it from the start - ”

“You really should keep your kismesis more firmly in check, you know.”

“His behavior is hardly any business of mine.”

“Do you really think so, Marquise?” Again, the callous little smile. She tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, mockingly. “Do you really think so?”

You read a book about the ways of rainbow drinkers, once. _They feed off the lifeblood of their fellow troll, without regard for caste, though preference may vary from drinker to drinker... The venom in their fangs is a powerful one, both stimulant and tranquilizer... The victim grows pliant, desirous..._

The pain is crippling, a jagged lightning-bolt of raw agony ripping through you from the neck down. A bitter yellow fog bubbles in your digestion sac, filling your mouth and eye-sockets; you cannot scream, you cannot see. The world narrows down to the place where she pierces you, fangs buried deep into your neck.

It seems an interminable time that you lie there adrift. You remember little of the episode, only brief snatches: the drag of her sodden clothes as you pulled them off with your clumsy, poison-addled hands. The way she snarled into your mouth. The copper tang of your own blood. The coal-dark, sprawling mess of the two of you, blood and salt and water in a vicious tide of surging desire. Your bulge lazily uncurling into her waiting nook. The roll of her body against yours; the luminous outline of her shoulder against the endless dark of your hivesuite.

 

Later, you stand over Dualscar’s gelid remains, the afterimage of her silhouette still vivid against the back of your eyelids. She has not yet learned to control the radiance granted her by her unnatural alliance with the sun; not that it matters, as she has no need for stealth, now. She has surpassed death itself.

Most likely he’d begged till the last, demanding explanations in that haughty, wavering way of his, eyes wide with terror at her impossible presence even as he stubbornly denied it. You’d have torn him apart without a second thought; you can hardly blame her for doing the same. His blood pools obscenely on the ship deck. It occurs to you that you will most likely not miss him.

There are newer horizons - newer suns - to chase now, after all.


End file.
